Always Missing You
by RemyDico5
Summary: After Sherlock's death at Reichenbach Falls, John starts a new blog trying to deal with the death. This was is private and John writes each entry to Sherlock in a way to talk to his friend.


**January the 4****th**

I made too much tea. I made an entire kettle's worth and only drank two cups myself. I ended up having to pour out the rest down the sink. I forgot you weren't here to help me drink it. I wonder how long it will be before I just make enough tea for one.

**January the 5****th**

Finally got around to throwing out those toes in the fridge. You always hated when I discarded your experiments. I fished them out of the bin and put them back. I didn't miss the toes.

I miss you.

**January the 6****th**

It's your birthday today. You wouldn't have even noticed until I gave you your present. Last year I got you an orange blanket as a joke, for when you were in shock. You laughed. We solved a murder that day and came home to eat the cake Mrs. Hudson baked for you. It was lemon. I don't think I'll ever eat lemons again.

Mycroft came over. We didn't really talk; we just sat together in the living room. I sat in my chair and Mycroft sat on the couch. We left your chair vacant. It seemed like the right thing to do. I don't think either of us could stomach being alone today. I was glad of the company, even if it was Mycroft.

**January the 9****th**

I'm bored. I can't leave the house without running into someone who knows me and feels like giving me a pitying look. So I have shut myself up in our flat. I can't take another look of someone feelings sorry for me. It always is a prelude to them telling me things will get better. I know they won't.

I thought about shooting up the wall. Don't think Mrs. Hudson would approve.

I miss you.

**January the 23****rd**

Lestrade pulled me from the flat and made me sit in the pub and watch a rugby match. He tells me about some of the more interesting cases they've had recently. There was one involving hemlock and missing heads. I think you would have liked that one.

**February The 14****th**

Valentine's Day. I don't have a date. I don't really mind. Molly stopped by and gave me a Valentine's Day card. She hugged me before leaving. You really should have been nicer to her.

**February the 28****th**

Your bed doesn't smell like you anymore. I went into your closet and stood amongst your suits. They still hold faint traces of you. Found a dark hair on one of them and thought about keeping it. Thought it might be a bit creepy though. Kept it anyway.

**March the 3****rd**

Mycroft came by again and sat with me. I'm not sure why. You would think the British Government has more important things to do with its time. Still, any time I'm not left alone is probably good. I might do something drastic.

**March the 15****th**

Why did you leave me?

**April the 12****th**

Went round to Harry's flat today. Told me she's serious about breaking her drinking habit this time. I pretended to believe her. I couldn't really get up the energy to care. Maybe I'm becoming a high functioning sociopath.

**April the 23****rd**

Picked up your violin and attempted to play it. I was really rubbish. Then again you weren't much better. I wonder if you would have laughed or been angry at me for touching it. I was gentle with it. Wouldn't want to break you stuff.

**May the 4****th**

I think I need a hobby.

**May the 12****th**

Pottery is a stupid hobby. I got clay all over my jumper and my vase looked like crap.

**May the 30****th**

Sometimes I wonder, if our roles have been reversed and I was the one that went over the falls, would you miss me the way I miss you? I know you always tried to act like you didn't feel things but I knew better. You felt things for me. I know you did. It's safe to assume you would feel my absence.

I think I'm a bit not good.

**June the 7****th**

Has it really been over half a year since you died? I don't know if the time is passing too quickly or too slowly. It doesn't really matter how time passes, I suppose. You're never coming back so what does it matter? Time can bloody stop for all I care.

I think I've stopped living. I'm still breathing, still taking in food, still sleeping when I can but it doesn't feel like I'm actually alive.

I miss you.

My heart hurts.

**June the 23****rd**

I went on a date tonight. Nice girl who works as a waitress at Angelo's. It went well but I'm not ready. I don't think I'll ever be ready. She leaned in to kiss me but I pulled away. I still have the ghost of your lips on mine. I don't want to lose that. I don't want it replaced with someone else's. Guess that means I won't be kissing anyone ever again.

**July the 5****th**

I wonder how many times I told you I loved you. I never did keep track. Probably not enough. I love you. I should have said it more.

**July the 7****th**

It's my birthday. Lestrade came over and took me to the pub. It feels like all my friends are people I knew through you. Did I really not have friends of my own? Or maybe I just lost most of them. Maybe you were my only friend. You were the only one that mattered at any rate.

You wouldn't have remembered my birthday I bet. You didn't last year. You looked guilty and a bit red when Mrs. Hudson brought me the cake she'd made. Carrot cake.

She brought me another cake this year. I tried to eat it to be polite but I could hardly stomach it. Isn't eating supposed to make people feel better? The tea helps wash it down some. It's nice to have someone here to have tea with. Mrs. Hudson left after giving me a pat on the hand. She misses you too. For someone who seemed so unlikable, you left a rather large hole in your wake.

**July the 19****th**

Accidentally broke one of your beakers in the kitchen. I spent hours trying to glue it back together. I'm not sure why, you have plenty of beakers. It seemed terribly important for some reason. Some of the bits were too smashed to get back together. I threw the beaker in a rage and smashed it right. I calmed down and swept up the pieces. I don't know why it made me so upset. Every bit of you that's left has to be kept safe. I can't keep losing bits of you or they'll be nothing left. Your clothes don't even smell like you very much anymore. They smell like me. I hate the way I smell. I spend too much time in your closet. I miss you.

**August the 18****th**

Dreams are cruel things. I used to dream of deserts and gun blasts. Now I dream about you. It's difficult when I dream about you dying. It's worse when I dream about us together. It's all just a sick reminder.

**August the 22****nd**

I sat on the roof and watched London. It's a crowded, lively city and yet it seems empty without you. Or maybe that's just me.

**September the 6****th**

Months and days and minutes and seconds. I close my eyes and its like I can feel them drifting by. It doesn't get better. It doesn't get easier.

I hate you.

I miss you.

**September the 24****th**

I reread my old blog, the one I let other people read. The one about you and our life together. The one I stopped when you died. I think about our showdown with Moriarty at the pool. You should have shot him in the head. You should have run. I told you to run Sherlock, why didn't you? I would have died for you. I would have been fine with it. Even then you were so important to me. But you were never supposed to die. I hate you for dying. I hate you for leaving me.

**October the 1****st**

Mycroft came over again today. We talked a little. I wanted to ask him why he was here. I didn't though. He's another part of you that's left so I'll never turn him away even if you always did.

**October the 16****th**

I think I'm starting to forget what you looked like. When I close my eyes and imagine you, the picture isn't as clear as it used to be. You were beautiful. Did I tell you that? I must have done. Either way you probably knew. You always knew. It was probably in the way I looked at you. I love you.

**November the 2****nd**

I chased a man today. He'd stolen some woman's purse and I chased him down and managed to knock him unconscious before calling Lestrade to arrest him. It felt good. I haven't done anything like that since… but I was so tired afterwards and my legs were screaming. It's a wonder I was ever able to do it at all. It was because I was running after you. I was prepared to run after you for the rest of my life.

**November the 25****th**

I went to Harry's for dinner. When I got home Mycroft was sitting in our flat. Mrs. Hudson had apparently made him a turkey sandwich and afterwards he came into our flat to sit. I suppose he didn't have anywhere else to be. He really doesn't look anything like you. It's probably why the first time I met him, I didn't realize he was your brother. But he is your brother and therefore an extension of you.

"I'm not holding up very well, am I?" I asked him, covering my face with my hands and groaning.

"Actually John, I think you're doing rather well, considering." He replied.

"It doesn't feel that way."

"You were the closest person to my brother. It's normal he would leave a dent in your life."

"How could he have been so bloody stupid?" I asked angrily. I hate you. I always hate you for leaving me. "How could he have died Mycroft? How could he—" my voice broke. I haven't talked about you out loud in what feels like forever. It's strange to be saying these things to Mycroft of all people.

"Remember that it was the dangerous quality of my brother's lifestyle that drew you to him in the first place."

"I never thought…he seemed bulletproof. I didn't think anything could touch him and even if it did, I was always there. We saved each other. We always saved each other."

"It sounds as if you blame yourself for his death John. You shouldn't. My brother had a great number of enemies. One of them was bound to get to him at some point."

This conversation wasn't helping. Nothing was helping. Nothing is going to take the sting out of it.

After a while Mycroft leaves, giving me a pat on the shoulder before he goes. You really should have been nicer to him. Then again it seems the only person you were nice to was me and you weren't even that nice. No, I don't mean that I guess. Still, you were a bloody nightmare to live with. Severed heads in the fridge. Experiments that almost burned down the flat. Violin at three in the morning. Never making the tea. I hated it and I loved it, just as I hate and love you.

Why did you leave me?

**December the 3****rd**

Everybody is getting ready for Christmas. I can't go anywhere without seeing people being cheerful. I'm in no mood for merriment. I have the strongest urge to throw a Christmas tree through a shop window and tell people to stop singing. I don't though. Mrs. Hudson's hung a wreath on the front door. Lestrade brought over a Christmas tree. I won't decorate it. I'll just let it die. All the needles will fall off and I'll be left with a bare tree. What a lovely thought.

**December the 15****th**

I couldn't be buggered to buy Christmas presents for anyone. I can't even be buggered to leave the flat. I don't want reminding that it's Christmas. It's snowing. You used to love the snow. We kissed in the snow around this time last year. It was coming down heavy and you were all wrapped up in that coat of yours, your scarf knotted about your neck. I was about to ask you if you wanted to get Chinese for dinner when you pulled me close and kissed me. It was just one of our many kisses but I can't go out into the snow without seeing it replaying everywhere. I'm haunted by the ghosts of Christmas past.

I wish you were a ghost. If you were you could haunt me. I wouldn't mind. At least you'd be here.

I think I'm going mental.

**December the 25****th**

I spent Christmas with Mrs. Hudson. We had ham for dinner and then watched It's a Wonderful Life while eating gingerbread men she made fresh. When the movie was finished I excused myself and went upstairs. I wasn't entirely surprised to find Mycroft sitting in our living room waiting. I hugged him. I'm not really sure why. It was strange and Mycroft seemed kind of taken aback by it. He sat with me well past midnight and we suffered through the end of Christmas together.

**January the 1****st**

I got drunk last night for New Years Eve. I kissed someone, I'm not sure who. It's all a bit fuzzy. But now the feelings of your lips are gone and a stranger's has replaced them. I suppose it had to happen eventually. I didn't want it to though.

I'm sorry.

Can it really have been a year since you died? An excruciating year. I don't know how I survived it. I don't know how I'm going to live through all the rest of my years without you. Is it always going to be like this? Am I always going to be missing you?

My heart hurts.

Happy Bloody New Year.

**January the 17****th**

Lestrade forced me to go to the pub with him. We watched the football match and got sloshed. I fell asleep on the sofa and woke up with a stiff neck. Maybe Harry had the right idea all along. Maybe if I spend all my time in a drunken state, I won't miss you as much.

I don't really believe that though.

**February the 2****nd**

I bought pot off some kid in the park. Spent the night in a state of euphoria and ate a whole bunch of hobnobs.

**February the 5****th**

Found some of your cocaine stashed away in your closet. I spend so much time in there, I had to find it eventually. Spent the night in a heightened state of euphoria. I don't eat any hobnobs though. Cocaine doesn't help me think like it did you. Look at me doing experiments. You would be so proud.

I think I'm getting into bad habits.

**February the 10****th**

I have given up my bout into illegal substances after a bad trip while on mushrooms. I hallucinated about you. It made things worse. I think I'll stick to alcohol. Less painful.

**February the 26****th**

Went to Angelo's for dinner tonight. I guess I was feeling nostalgic. He still gives me food on the house. I'm pretty sure it's out of pity. I don't mind too much. I sit at our table by the window. Sometimes I look up from my plate and swear I can see you sitting there, watching me eat.

I think I might be going a bit strange.

**March the 14****th**

I had the most vivid dream about you. I was having a nightmare about the war and I could feel your arms around me, trying to keep me safe. Trying to comfort me. Then I could feel your lips coaxing me from the dream, attempting to wake me or just letting my subconscious know it wasn't real, that I was back in London.

With you.

I can't recall how many times you did that for me. How many times did you pull me from my nightmares? Did I ever thank you?

**March the 29****th**

Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. I don't know what stage I'm on. I feel most of these daily.

Except acceptance.

Never acceptance.

**April the 7****th**

I can't go anywhere in London without being reminded of you. It's like you put your mark over the whole sodding city. I ended up at the morgue at St. Bart's. I asked Molly if she had a skull she wouldn't mind giving me. I think I'll put it on the mantle so I can have someone to talk to.

I ended up having coffee with Molly. I think she was concerned about my mental state. Everyone should be concerned about my mental state.

"Have you thought about seeing a therapist John?" she asked me while giving me that shy smile of hers.

"They didn't help after the war. I don't see why they should help now." I replied with a shrug. Therapy didn't fix me after the war. You did.

"It's obvious you need someone to talk to."

"That's why I asked for a skull."

"Someone who will actually talk back. You can't stay locked up in Baker Street John."

"I don't think anything is going to help with this Molly."

"Give it time John. Things will get better."

She gave my hand a little pat and left. I've noticed people don't like to be around you for long periods of time when you're depressed. They just tell you their wonderfully helpful advice and then leave.

As if any of them know what this feels like.

**April the 25****th**

I found a hole you burned into the living room rug. You had moved the coffee table to cover it up. I'd always wondered why it had shifted slightly to the left. I would have been angry. I would have yelled at you.

Instead I just stare at the hole. It's like you're leaving new things for me to find so I can pretend you're still a part of my life.

God I miss you.

**March the 4****th**

Lestrade asked me to help on a case. I think Molly must have talked to him or something. He hasn't asked me to help on a case since you left me. Maybe they're all discussing me, keeping tabs on me. Working together to make sure my depression level doesn't reach critical. I can't think of any of reason why Lestrade would ask me to help on a case. Still, I'll take the pity for now.

I can't believe I'm developing conspiracy theories about our friends.

Definitely going mental.

**March the 5****th**

The case was fairly straight forward. Already solved. I don't think I helped in the slightest. It still felt good to be at a crime scene. Your absence is glaring though. Maybe I should become a police officer. It would give me something to do in my spare time.

I probably won't though And I don't think I'm quite qualified to become a consulting detective.

**March the 20****th**

I switch between never sleeping and sleeping too much. Either I can't be buggered to get out of bed or I can't even think about sleeping. Sometimes the bed holds too many memories. It's painful and I drown in them. Other times the memories are a comfort and I need them.

All those times we lied in bed together. How were you ever real?

**April the 13****th**

Miss you.

Hate You.

Love you.

Loathe you.

Fuck you.

Fuck you.

Fuck you.

Fuck you.

I love you.

**April the 26****th**

Sometimes I think of our flat as a museum. A place where every bit of Sherlock Holmes is perfectly preserved for posterity. Everything is as you left it. I try not to disturb things too much. I don't live in this flat anymore. I'm its security guard, making sure no one messes with your things.

**May the 3****rd**

Went to the pub with Lestrade.

Dull.

Predictable.

Boring.

I think I miss you so much I'm turning into you.

**May the 17****th**

Mycroft was sitting in the living room when I got home from work. It had been almost six months since I'd seen him. It was good to see him, which was strange.

"So I take you've stopped your bout into the world of substance abuse?" he asked me conversationally. Of course he knew. I wonder if Mycroft can read this. He has access to everything. Why should my private blog be any different?

"Yes." I nod.

"Good. That's good." He said approvingly.

"How's work?"

"Tiring." He told me. "I've been quite busy or I would have come to visit you sooner."

"There's no need, I'm fine."

"We both know that is not the case John."

"And how are you holding up?" I don't think I've ever bothered to ask him that before.

"I keep busy. It helps."

"Do you miss him? I know you two didn't really get on but I know you worried about him."

"Yes. Despite our antagonistic relationship, I miss my brother dearly."

"It's good to know I'm not the only one." I said with a faint smile.

"Indeed." He almost smiled back.

**June the 12****th**

Woke up and swore I could hear you playing your violin. You used it like a torture device and yet I could hear you playing. Are you haunting me? Because that would be fantastic.

**June the 13****th**

Doubt you're haunting me.

Definitely losing my mind.

**July the 2****nd**

I sat in the park today and tried to deduce things about people around me. I didn't get very far. You would have laughed at me and pointed out the real deductions, while giving me that condescending smile of yours. Still it feels nice to try, to be doing something. It hurts to be reminded of you and yet it doesn't. Sometimes I feel like I'm the only one keeping your memory alive. Well, Mycroft as well I suppose.

The world didn't stop spinning when you died.

Maybe it should have.

**July the 7****th**

Another birthday. Another cake. Another day missing you.

**July the 30****th**

I went on a date tonight. I'm not really sure why. I didn't want to. I thought it would be better than sitting at home alone all night. It wasn't.

**August the 15****th**

I think I need to shag someone. Isn't that how you normally get over someone? Except this isn't the same as being dumped. I think shagging someone will only make me feel worse. But Christ it's been forever. I'll probably just have a wank instead. Good thing I'm already depressed because my life is pretty pathetic.

**September the 4****th**

Lestrade invited me to another crime scene. I looked at the body and tried to be you. I don't think I was very convincing. Everyone gave me sympathetic smiles. I don't think I can go to another one. It's just pandering and I know it. I don't really like being patronized by everyone I know. Poor little John with his poor broken heart.

**September the 25****th**

I took out my gun today and held it in my lap for a while. I won't kill myself. I'm one of the pieces of you that's left. Killing myself would be like killing you. Still, it's a nice idea. Shoving off, not having to go about my day missing you. Always missing you.

Bit not good.

**October the 3****rd**

Chatted up a girl at the bar. She seemed nice. I can't even remember her name. She gave me her number. I don't think I'll call though. I don't think I'm in the right state of mind to be with anyone right now. I'm truly a miserable bastard.

Why is it I feel like if I do date someone, I'll be cheating on you? You won't care if I'm with someone else. You're dead. So why does every date I go on make me feel guilty? Maybe I feel that I'm not properly honoring your memory or something. But fuck Sherlock, it's been almost two years. Have I just resigned myself to never being happy again? You died. You left me. Don't I get any happiness? I'm a widower and we weren't even married.

**October the 28****th**

Lestrade has started a small poker game. I'm suspicious that this has been done for my benefit. I've never heard Lestrade mention any interest in gambling before. He's never said anything about a poker night and yet he asked me to join in.

When I arrived at his flat, a few blokes I didn't recognize were there and so was Sally. I was friendly to the other men there but when it came time to sit, I moved myself to sit in between Lestrade and Sally since they were the only two I knew. It wasn't a terrible evening. I might even say I had fun. We smoked cigars and drank scotch. It was all very masculine. I even ended up winning some money.

We left pretty late and I offered to walk Sally to her flat, apparently it wasn't far. I know she's a capable woman who can handle herself. I think walking her home was just for my benefit instead of hers. I wasn't ready to come home yet.

"You're allowed to be happy, you know?" Sally said as we walked together down the quiet London streets. It was a rather cold night and I had my hands shoved in my jacket pockets, my collar turned up against the wind.

"I know that." I replied.

"I don't think you do." Sally eyed me for a moment. Why does everyone I know have to be a bloody detective always trying to figure me out? Maybe I should stick to talking to Mrs. Hudson. "I was watching you in there. Any time you laughed, you immediately got this guilty look on your face. He wouldn't want you to be miserable."

"Forgive me if I don't take your word on it. You never liked Sherlock."

"I liked you. We all did. We worried about you. What he would do to you. You're nice John, nice in the ways he was not. Sometimes I think you're better off without him."

"Well I fucking don't. Sherlock wasn't just my flatmate and my friend, he was my whole bloody world. I came back from the war with nothing and I built a life around him. So don't you tell me I'm better off without him, don't you dare."

"Sorry." Sally mumbled and hurried off while I stood on the sidewalk steaming.

Nobody understood what you meant to me. Nobody was there in the quiet moments in our flat where you just held me. Or when you told me you loved me. None of them saw how much we changed each other. You not feeling anything while I felt everything too much. We met in the middle where we both felt just enough.

That's why no one will ever understand my grief.

John Watson, the last person who mourns the death of Sherlock Holmes.

**November the 8****th**

I thought about our first kiss. When we'd finally returned home from the hospital after the pool. We were both pretty banged up. Covered in bruises and stitches and smelling like a bonfire. God I haven't thought about this in ages. We were hardly in the door when you pulled me in for a kiss. It was wet and sloppy but perfect. It said so much. Much more than we could ever say in words. And yet you did later that night. You told me you couldn't live without your heart.

What made you think I could?

**November the 22****nd**

And just like that London is covered in Christmas as if Santa Clause himself threw up all over it. Another Christmas without you.

My heart hurts.

**December the 14****th**

I look old. In two years I've managed to age a decade. The creases in my forehead have gotten deeper and I have more wrinkles around my eyes. I think it's from the lack of sleep .My hairs got more patches of gray in it. I think it might be fully gray by this time next year. I don't think I'll pull off the look like Lestrade does.

Or maybe I look so old because I don't smile anymore. You always said smiling made me look much younger. I have no cause to smile anymore.

**December the 24****th**

It's Christmas Eve and I'm all alone in 221B Baker Street. I couldn't stomach going over to Harry's flat and Mrs. Hudson is in Scotland visiting her sister. The house is eerily quiet. I picked up your violin and tried to play it again, just to have some noise in the house. When I was done abusing the instrument with my rough and careless fingers, I put it down and switched on the telly.

**December the 25****th**

Oh God what have I done?

**December the 28****th**

It's taken three days for me to get straightened out enough to write this. I don't know how this happened. Oh God can you ever forgive me? No, because you're dead. You're dead and gone. You're dead. Why can't I seem to get that through my thick skull? You're dead and don't care about what I do. By then why do I feel so guilty?

It was Christmas Eve and I'd been having some eggnog by myself watching mind-numbing Christmas cartoons on the telly. I was halfway through Rudolph when Mycroft came over. He sat down and I offered him some eggnog, which he took. For a long time we sat there in silence. Rudolph is a very fucked up cartoon, especially for something meant to be shown to children.

Afterwards they were showing Miracle on 34th Street, which Mycroft said was a personal favorite of his. We watched it together and by the time it was over it was Christmas and we were both fairly tipsy on eggnog.

"I should probably get home." Mycroft said getting up from his chair.

"Why do you keep coming here Mycroft?" I asked. All these visits. What were they for?

"I simply wish to make sure you are all right."

"And that's all?"

"Yes John. Despite what my brother may have told you during your time together, I do not always have ulterior motives for my actions. I am capable of showing concern and since my brother is no longer with us, it seems that my concern has been transferred to you."

"And yet every holiday, here you are. Is it that you don't want me to be alone or that you yourself don't want to be alone?" I asked rising to my feet.

"Sherlock was the last of my family. You are not close to yours. I simply thought you would like some company." Mycroft sniffed before heading to the door.

I rushed over and stood in front of it. I don't know what compelled me. Maybe it was the eggnog or the crippling loneliness I felt or maybe it was just that he shared your last name but I found my hand resting on his arm. And before I knew what I was doing my lips were pressed against his.

He pulled away almost instantly. "John, I don't think—"

"Please." My eyes fluttered closed for a second but I forced myself to open them. "I don't want to be alone tonight."

Mycroft nodded and allowed me to take him upstairs.

**December the 29****th**

How could I do that?

I hate myself.

I hate Mycroft.

I hate you.

**December the 30****th**

It feels like a great betrayal. You'd hate me if you were here. Hate me for what I've done. But you're not here. I don't know which is worse.

**December the 31****st**

If you had been here this never would have happened. I can't stomach it. I can't stomach any of it. It's New Years Eve and I'm getting drunk. I'm going to kiss someone at midnight that is not named Holmes and then I'm going to return home to loathe myself some more.

**January the 1****st**

Well the hangover seems like a decent punishment. I fell off the couch and ended up sleeping on the floor. Now my back is out of joint.

I still hate myself.

**January the 6****th**

Your birthday is here again. Happy Fucking Birthday. I've shagged your brother. Maybe I should have gotten you something else for a present.

This is so very, very not good.

**January the 7****th**

Mycroft picked me up off the street in the large, black, menacing car of his. I thought about asking him to have me killed. Surely he must know people. Honestly it would be a blessing and a relief. Just have some assassin come into Baker Street and shoot me dead. Or maybe position a sniper across the street and shoot me through an open window. I don't think I can live with myself anymore.

"What do you want Mycroft?" I asked icily.

"So I take it you are still regretting what happened on Christmas?"

"Can we just…not talk about it?" I asked rubbing my neck in agitation. What did he want from me?

"John, if you say you want to forget the whole thing, we will by all means—"

"Yes, that's what I want." I interjected immediately. Thank God.

The rest of the drive passed by in awkward silence until the car pulled up to our flat.

"Goodbye John."

"Goodbye Mycroft."

"Here is my card, if you find you need anything."

I stared at it for a moment, considering leaving without taking it.

"I won't be coming around again. This will be your only way to contact me."

"I do have your phone number."

"I had to switch phone numbers."

"Fine." I grumbled, snatching the card from his hand and shoving it into my pocket before getting out of the car.

**January the 24****th**

I can't believe a part of me actually misses Mycroft.

What the fuck is that about?

Bugger.

**February the 1****st**

I've been turning Mycroft's card around in my hands for days. Every time I look down it's in my hands, having appeared out of nowhere.

I don't want to see Mycroft.

I don't want to be reminded of that night.

I'm not going to call him.

What the hell is wrong with me?

**February the 20****th**

I went to your grave and confessed everything even though I know you're not buried there. It felt good to tell you when I knew you couldn't yell at me for it. I feel so ashamed. But you're dead and I'm here and I have to make the most of it. I can't keep living with your shadow following me around. God I don't know what I want.

I want you to be alive.

But you're not.

What do I do now?

**March the 3****rd**

Pub with Lestrade. Getting back to mundane. Mundane is good. Mundane works. Stop my life from being a bloody soap opera.

**March the 19****th**

I must be mental. No, scratch that. I am definitely mental. I think about going to see Mycroft at least once a day if not more.

Why?

How could this happen?

**April the 8****th**

I thought about the first time we had sex. You were so hesitant. So unsure. Truthfully, I liked it. You followed my lead because you trusted me. I enjoyed having one thing that I knew more about than you. And it was glorious. Everything I had ever hoped for.

God I loved you.

I still do.

I love you. I love you. Why did you leave me? I can't stand it. I can't live without you. I love you. How could you do this to me? I hate you. I miss you. I'm losing my mind without you. I'm so weak. I'm so lost. I'm so bloody tired.

**May the 23****rd**

I've become a zombie. I go to work, I come home. Sometimes I watch telly, other times I read a book. Sometimes I eat. Not as often as I used to though. I've lost some weight. I look more haggard each day. I'm slowly dying. Dying from guilt. Dying from missing you. I can't cope on my own. After I came home invalid from the war, I couldn't fix myself and I felt lost, like I was drowning. You saved me. I could never save myself. You saved me.

I'm weak Sherlock. You thought I was strong but I'm so weak. You should have known. You should have seen. You should have known I couldn't handle this. If you had, maybe you wouldn't have left me.

**June the 5****th**

"What do you want from me Mycroft?" I asked pacing his study while he sat at his desk chair watching me.

"What makes you think I want anything from you John?"

"You must want something. You wouldn't have given me this bloody thing if you didn't want something." I slapped his card down on the desk and removed my hand so he could see of what I spoke.

"It was simply an offer, an olive branch if you'd like. You're the one who came here. So why don't we address what you'd like instead?"

"No, no, you're not turning this around on me. You wouldn't have given me this card if it didn't mean something, if you didn't want something."

"Might I remind you that you are the one who initiated what occurred between us?"

"I know."

"And you are the one who chose that we forget about it."

"Yes."

"Then why are you here John?"

Mycroft's stare was piercing and unrelenting.

"I don't know." I answered, slumping down into the chair opposite him. I'm grateful there's a desk between us. Makes it feel less intimate than being at our flat. Oh Christ thinking about intimacy while I'm with Mycroft. What has become of me?

"Maybe you should take time to think about it."

"Alright." I nodded, shakily getting out of the chair and leaving.

Everything is fucked.

**June the 18****th**

I had a bath. I can't remember the last time I had a bath. Actually I can remember very vividly the last time I had a bath but would prefer not to. Sometimes I miss you so much I can't breathe. How am I supposed to keep living like this?

**July the 7****th**

This is my third birthday without you and I can't stand it. I can't sit at home alone or go down to the pub and pretend that I'm not missing you. That I don't feel your absence weighing on my heart. It hurts, Sherlock. Everything hurts.

I wind up at Mycroft's without even meaning to. I had no idea why I was there. Maybe I just needed someone to talk to. Or maybe I just wanted to know that someone missed you as much as I did. Mycroft has been a source of…I guess you could say comfort.

"Hello again John. Happy birthday."

"Do you miss your brother?" I demanded without so much as a greeting.

"Yes." Mycroft replied, meeting my harsh stare. He seemed like he meant it.

"I don't want anything from you."

"That's fine, John." Mycroft said leaving the room.

"Damn it." I cursed myself before following him.

**July the 21****st**

It's not love, this thing with your brother. It's not lust either. I don't think about him the way I did you. You were constantly on my mind. It's something else. A need perhaps. Mycroft is the closest thing I have to someone who understands how I feel. Someone who gets it.

I'm just so tired of being alone.

**August the 6****th**

"I'm not him." Mycroft said after we'd just shagged. I closed my eyes. Couldn't I go one bloody day without someone mentioning you? You're already always there, in the back of my mind. Why does everyone insist on causing me pain? And why did Mycroft insist on bringing you up while I was with him? It makes my betrayal feel that much deeper.

"I know that." I snapped, gathering up my clothes and putting them on hastily. "Why are you telling me that as if I don't know?"

"You are dealing with a great loss by having intercourse with me. It seems pertinent to remind you that I am not nor will I ever be Sherlock Holmes."

"Nobody is Sherlock Holmes, because Sherlock Holmes is dead. I'm not here because you're his brother; I'm here because I thought you understood on some level what I'm feeling. But then I guess asking a Holmes to understand emotions is asking too much."

"I am actually quite capable of grasping human emotions so it seems you are once again equating me to my brother in a hope that we are similar enough to make up for the fact that he is no longer with us."

"I'm not here to get psychoanalyzed." I replied curtly.

"If you want sex without talking, there are places for that kind of thing. In fact there's an entire profession dedicated to it."

I left without another word.

**August the 28****th**

I went back. Of course I did. I feel pathetic, like a dog crawling back to his owner after it's been beaten. Sex with him is different, naturally it would be. With you it was loud and passionate. I always had to struggle to hold on once you got going. With Mycroft it's quiet and slow. We barely kiss. I never stay the night. If it were anyone else but him I would be worried about using him. But afterwards he always says something that sounds like he's dismissing me. Perhaps I should worry that he is using me.

**September the 12****th**

I wish I could have gone back to Afghanistan. I could have felt useful to someone. Felt like my life had purpose. Instead I'm wasting away in London, missing you.

Always missing you.

**September the 30****th**

Maybe I need to get out of London. Get away from Baker Street. Get away from Mycroft. I don't think I'll ever get away from you though. You'll haunt me wherever I go.

So what do you say? Feel like going on a trip with me? We may never come back.

Definitely lost my mind.

**October the 15****th**

I've been searching online for places we could go. Places I could go. I really need to pull myself together or else slip entirely into madness. This hovering on the line is no good.

Not sure which I'd prefer.

** October the 29****th**

"I'm thinking about going on a trip." I divulge to Lestrade when we're at the pub.

"Good. That's good. You should have taken one ages ago. Get out of London, it'll be good for you."

"I'm not sure if I'll come back."

"Course you will." He replied confidently.

"I don't really have a reason to." I shrugged.

"You have friends here John. You have a life here. Besides, what will happen to your flat if you never come back? It's your home."

"I thought about that, actually. I was considering asking Mycroft to continue paying the rent if I decide not to return."

"Would he do that?"

"I'm not sure. I can't ask Mrs. Hudson. She needs the money we give her. I can't ask her to just not rent out the place while I don't give her any money in exchange."

"If you need help with anything, give me a call, yeah?"

"Thank you Greg."

**November the 2****nd**

I'm thinking maybe Egypt. Hot sun. Mummies. Things we both like.

**November the 10****th**

I think I'll leave right after Christmas. Or right before. I'm not sure I can take another Christmas in London. Especially when I consider what happened last Christmas.

**November the 17****th**

I love you. It's been a while since I've written that. But never doubt it. I think it every day.

**November the 28****th**

Less than a month and I'll be gone. I've decided to take the train. You loved trains and I want this journey to take as long as possible. London to Istanbul. Istanbul to Damascus. Damascus to Amman. I leave the 27th of December. One last Christmas in London. I guess it makes it feel like a proper goodbye. I haven't talked to Mycroft about the possibility of him paying for our flat while I'm away. I should probably do that sometime soon. I've been avoiding him.

**December the 4****th**

"Absolutely not." Mycroft said immediately after I asked.

"Why not?"

"You expect me to pay for you apartment indefinitely while you go on holiday? And what if you decide not to come back? Am I to just keep shelling out money so you can preserve that place like a mausoleum? Like a shrine to my brother?"

"You're upset." I said in awe. I'd never seen Mycroft upset before.

"I am not here to cater to your every whim, John." Mycroft said clenching and unclenching his jaw.

"I'm sorry. I just thought…"

"You just thought that you'd leave and do whatever you please while forcing me to stay here and deal with everything."

"Wait are you…actually mad that I'm leaving?"

"While our time together has not been ideal, I would have thought I at least warranted some notice."

"I'm not trying to get away from you, if that's what you're thinking.'

"It isn't."

"I need to get out of London. I was going to tell you."

"The only reason you're telling me now is because you expect a favor."

"That's not true. I wouldn't leave without saying goodbye. You're important to me Mycroft. You've been a source of comfort over these last three years, one of the only ones I've had. I don't think I would have held it together, in the pathetic way I did, if it hadn't been for you. I'm sorry if you felt I was taking advantage of your kindness, it was not my intention. In fact, it was wrong of me to ask. I better start packing so I can put our things into storage. Goodbye Mycroft."

I held out my hand and he shook it. It was very formal considering other things we'd done together. Still I thought a hug might be weird.

"John." Mycroft said when I was almost to the door. "Baker Street will be paid for until you return home."

"Thank you."

**December the 18****th**

All packed up and ready to go. I've got two suitcases, not really sure how much I'm going to need since I don't know how long this trip will be. I suppose I'll stay gone until I run out of money or I miss London, whichever comes first. I think I'll enjoy Egypt and if not there are millions of other places I can go.

Mrs. Hudson has been crying ever since I've told her about my departure. I wasn't aware my leaving would have such a great affect on her. It's almost enough to make me change my mind about the whole thing. Almost.

I can't stay though. Missing you. Continuing whatever this fuck up thing is between Mycroft and Myself. Going to the pub with Lestrade. Going to work. It's no life. It's not enough. If I have to miss you, I'd rather do it far away where everything doesn't remind me of you. You'll never be far from my thoughts but perhaps they won't be as painful if I'm somewhere else.

One can only hope.

**December the 25****th**

Spent Christmas with Mrs. Hudson. She baked cookies that she insisted I eat and gave me what seemed to be the entire contents of her fridge to take on the trip. I assured it wasn't necessary and yet she wouldn't take it back. Now it's time to do the rest of the Christmas farewell tour.

Paid a quick visit to Molly. She gave me coffee and told me she was going to miss me. Strange, we barely spoke. She's sweet though.

Went and saw Lestrade at his house. His wife and children are really lovely. It's a shame I never met them sooner. He'd been inviting me for the last three years but I never went. More the pity.

I spent longer than I meant to at Harry's. She cried and told me to take care of myself. The last time we said goodbye like this was when I was deployed for service in Afghanistan. It's understandable that she would be on edge.

I don't bother to visit Mycroft. I sent him a letter saying goodbye. Don't want to stop over and end up doing something I'll regret.

**December 26****th****- **

You're here. How are you here? You're alive. How can that be? Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you come home sooner?

Why?

**December 27****th**

You're asleep upstairs. How can you be asleep upstairs? How can you be alive?

I arrived home from Harry's to find you standing in the living room. You looked older and different but still you. You were inspecting our Christmas tree (Lestrade brought another one like he did every year) and its lack of decorations. You were here. And for a few moments I thought I had actually snapped. I was hallucinating you.

"Hello." You said simply in that deep baritone of yours.

"You're alive?" I asked, unsure if this was real or not.

"Yes, I'm alive John." You stepped closer. I could feel the heat radiating off your body.

"No." I closed my eyes and shook my head. "You're not really here. I've finally gone mental."

I could feel your body press up against mine. "John." You said softly as you caressed a finger against my cheek.

"You've been alive this whole time." I asked in aggravation.

"Yes."

My mind was spinning with questions. How were you alive? How could you leave me? How could you let me think you were dead? Where have you been? What have you been doing? Why didn't you contact me? Why couldn't I be where you were? Why did you do this to me?

Everything went silent when you kissed me. It felt strange. Kissing you with your beard was new and different. The beard scratched against my cheek but it didn't matter because your lips were on mine and you were alive. I pulled you upstairs and started making up for lost time.

You were here and I could kiss you and touch you. Your cock was inside me, bringing me slowly to orgasm and I wanted to cry. You were alive and you were beautiful and you were home.

**December the 29****th**

You finally told me where you'd been for the past three years. Hunting down the rest of Moriarty's associates knowing they'd seek revenge. I could kill you for leaving.

"Why couldn't I go with you?" I asked.

"You're a weakness with me John. They knew that and would have exploited it."

"But I could have helped you. I always helped you."

"Not with this you couldn't. I had to be completely off the radar and traveling with you would have called attention to me." You explained carefully.

"I am able to grow a beard too, you know." I joked and you tugged at yours self-consciously. It has flecks of ginger in it. "But why couldn't you have told me you were alive?"

"It was safe to assume that after I faked my death, people would be watching this place very closely to be sure I was actually dead. Your grief had to be real so people would believe I was actually dead. It was safer if you didn't know."

"For Christ's sake Sherlock. You let me believe you were dead. Do you have any idea how difficult it's been for me?"

"Also, if you knew I was alive, you would have come looking for me. I couldn't have that John."

You were right. I would have. If I had known you were alive I would have done everything in my power to find you. It still hurt though, like you thought I was too weak. Too incapable of going with you. That I wasn't enough.

"John, I would have given anything to have you with me. If there had been any other way…"

You trailed off. Your eyes were sad. Were these three years as hellish for you as they were for me? At least you probably weren't bored, hunting down criminals like always. But without me. You left me in London to suffer in your absence.

It would have been worse to know though. It would have been terrible to know you were alive, tracking people that wanted you dead. People that would hurt you. Worrying that you would never come home to me. Perhaps what you did was a mercy. I want to believe that it was.

**December the 30****th**

The realization came to me quite suddenly in the middle of the night. You were asleep in my arms, I can never seem to let go of you anymore, when something struck me. I slipped out of bed and got dressed, being as quiet as possible so as not to wake you. You looked beautiful, asleep on the pillow, that strange beard gone from your face so I could see you underneath. It almost killed me to leave you but I had to know.

"John, still with us then?" Mycroft asked as I barged into his study.

"How long?" I asked, rage filling me.

"Pardon?"

"How long have you known Mycroft? How long have you known that Sherlock was alive?"

"My brother is alive?"

He put on a good show but I could tell he was feigning his surprise.

"Don't give me that. You're part of the British Government. You know everything. You certainly would have known if Sherlock was alive."

"Yes I knew." Mycroft nodded.

"For how long?"

"The whole time." He said, confirming my worst fears. I dropped down into the chair.

"You knew." I said quietly. "You knew the entire time."

"Yes. Sherlock managed to get a message to me saying that he was alive."

"You- you- you sat there for three years watching me suffer. Knowing you could end it just by telling me the truth." I stared at him incredulously.

"To do so would be going against my brother's wishes. I was told that I was not to, under any circumstances, inform you that my brother was alive."

"What else? What else did the message say?"

"That you would need quite a bit of consoling while he was away and that I should do what I could to ease your time apart."

"That was nice of him." I answered dryly. "And you took that to mean that you should shag me?"

"Don't be ridiculous John. I never made any advancements, which you know perfectly well. It was something you needed so I obliged."

"So you slept with me out of what…brotherly obligation? Or did you relish the idea of taking something that had once belonged to Sherlock?"

"Not at all." Mycroft's eyes flashed with anger. "I was acting in accordance to my brother's wishes. He asked me to look after you and I did in any capacity you required. You needed me and I was there."

"Please stop talking about me like I'm a dog he asked you to look after while he was away. It's bad enough that you slept with me because you felt you had to."

"I never said that John, please don't put words in my mouth."

"What?" I blinked at him. This conversation had derailed quite quickly. "I don't know what to do now."

"Are you concerned with hurting my feelings John?"

"Kind of, yes." I nodded.

"Then let me put your mind at rest. You should go home and be with my brother. I knew full well that our association would be over if and when my brother returned."

"So you're going to be all right?" I asked hopeful.

"I'll be fine, John." He smiled in return. It didn't quite reach his eyes.

I stood, ready to come home to you. All the anger I had felt was now gone. "I won't forget it you know. What you did for me, what happened between us."

I turned to leave and was almost out the door when I heard him. "Nor I." he said it so quietly I couldn't be sure if he'd actually said it or if I had imagined it. Regardless, I slipped through the door, eager to come home knowing you were here.

**December the 31****st**

I don't know what to do. I'm feeling quite helpless. You know. You know about Mycroft. I came home from his place to find you sitting in your chair waiting for me.

"And how is my brother this evening?" You asked, your hands tented in that way you do.

"What?" I asked surprised. How could you possibly have known where I'd gone?

"Don't insult my intelligence." You snapped angrily. "You reek of his cologne as do a decent amount of your clothes. How long have you been sleeping together?"

I thought about lying but I couldn't.

"The first time was a year ago. It hasn't been continuous or anything. Just once in a while."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" You asked, your eyes narrowed and piercing.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry."

"How could you do that to me John?" You asked accusingly. I looked down at my hands, unable to meet your gaze. "How could you have sex with my own brother? How could you let him fuck you?"

I'd been waiting for this. Ever since you'd gotten home, I'd been waiting for this moment. Been dreading it. I knew you'd find out, of course you would. And yet I didn't feel bad or ashamed. I felt angry. All the things I had pushed aside since the moment you came home. Everything I had ignored to be with you, to be glad you were home but you couldn't ignore this to be with me. Suddenly it was all rising to the surface and I couldn't push it down any longer.

"Three. Years. Sherlock." I said through gritted teeth. "I've been mourning your death for three years. Do you have any idea what it did to me? I've been half alive since the moment I thought you were dead. It's been hell and I've been suffering through the best way I know how. And I was weak and I needed someone. Mycroft was there for me and he was your brother, which meant he was more like you than anyone else I was ever going to meet and I needed that. I didn't know you were coming home because you didn't tell me. You were dead. Dead and gone forever and I was still here and I had to make do."

"So you're saying this is my fault." You concluded.

"Maybe I am."

"How is this possibly my fault?"

"You left me." I said simply.

"I already explained why it was necessary."

"Yeah, well all the explaining in the world is never going to get me those three years of my life back."

"It would seem we're at an impasse in our relationship."

"No." I shook my head. It couldn't be over. Not like this. I wouldn't accept that. I had just gotten you back. "Is it comparable?"

"Is what?"

"Would you say that what I did and what you did were comparable?"

"Are you asking if sleeping with my brother is as bad as letting you believe I was dead for three years?" you asked, staring at me.

"Yes." I nodded.

"I suppose it could be." You contemplated it.

"Then what if we just agree to forgive each other?"

"You think that will work?" You looked doubtful.

"Maybe things can't go back to the way they were but we could forgive each other and I don't know…go back to being colleagues and flatmates. Nothing more until we're ready to be more. We'll just start again from this point."

"You'd be prepared to do that?"

"Yes. I went three years without you. Don't make me spend any more time away from you. I can't."

"Very well."

**January the 1****st**

I don't really want to go to work. Even though we're back to sleeping in separate rooms, I can't bear to be away from you. Being colleagues is going to be difficult when I still just want to pull you in tight and hold you. Doesn't seem like appropriate behavior for colleagues. Still, you're alive and you're home and for now that will have to be enough.

I'm leaving my laptop out. It's password protected but that's never stopped you before. I'm hoping you'll read this. That you'll understand why I did what I did. Some parts might be hard for you to read but not as hard as it was to live them. I just pray you're bored enough to look. If not, I'll just have to try again until you do get curious enough to read it. If worse comes to worse I'll handcuff you to the radiator and read it to you (please God don't let it come to that) because I need you to understand. I need you to forgive me. I can't think of anything I wouldn't forgive you. Please come back to me.

I miss you.

I hate you.

I loathe you.

I forgive you.

I love you.

Happy New Year.


End file.
